“Look, Sheila, uh…Ms. Drysdale,” Virginia Darrow said. “I can promise a balanced piece. I’m not Hard Copy making some sordid exposé. John has millions of devoted fans around the world who can’t get to the Ministry to see him in person. My interview will give them a chance to get up close and personal with this extraordinary man.”
She paused, anxiety flickering across her face. “Yes, I understand your position, but no…please wait! Can I speak to John myself, perhaps, don’t—”
Virginia Darrow slammed the cell phone onto the desk then threw it across the room. She swore and tore at the highlighted streaks in her long chestnut hair.
The Easter holiday season was howling in with the speed of a New England snowstorm and every network was scrambling to land the coveted spot. She’d supplied all manner of facts and figures and insider info about the John Jacobs Passion Ministry, the vast numbers in his devoted, global flock, even his subsidiary companies, including Passion Sound. But when she’d told her boss, Perry, that you could read a newspaper through the gaping hole in the Apostle’s side, Perry had drooled. Swallowed it up right along with her cafe latte. One minor problem: it was all BS. Virginia didn’t know John the Apostle from Jack-in-the-Box.
Right on cue, her boss marched into Virginia’s office. She forced her eyes upon the mannish, cherub-cheeked woman, willing her not to see the cell phone lying six inches from her feet. “Everything okay?” Perry Kernan asked.
She nodded, not trusting her voice. Perry would hear her failure, her need. The work meant everything. Without it—the caress of the camera lens, the fluttering in her belly, the kick of recognition—Virginia’s life was as barren as an empty television screen. She worked very hard on her stunning external facade and on-the-money discourse, but like any feigned balancing act, inevitably something might slip.
Perry smiled and snapped her gum. “Just came back from upstairs. Big guns wanted me to tell you how excited we all are about the Apostle interview. Lookin’ at a twenty share, easy.” She paused, stooped to pick up the phone. “Pretty neat trick for a stringer.”
Virginia felt the blotches searing her neck and shoulders and wished she hadn’t worn the teddy. She’d gambled with the sexy look and ignored the obvious risk. Now her boss would notice her panic. A couple of strides and Perry Kernan was two feet away.
She leaned in until Virginia could smell the Juicy Fruit.
“Lot ridin’ on this, Darrow.” The gum snapped again. Perry shifted and strode to the door. “‘Course, I don’t have to tell you that,” she said, tossing the phone in her direction.
Virginia lacked the co-ordination to catch it. The phone bounced off the table and plopped into her lap.
Oh hell.
Forty-five minutes later, Virginia was doing what she always did when she was under pressure and needed inspiration: munching glazed doughnuts and dancing to loud music. Using a half-eaten doughnut as a microphone, she bopped around her small office, lip-synching off key with abandon.
Unseen, Perry Kernan stood in the doorway, grinning.
